


of fangirls and milk bread

by swan_dive



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Best Friends, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Jealousy, Mutual Pining, Reader has a crush, Requited Love, Third Years, Unrequited Love, and oikawa knows, hes a lil bitch, reader is female, reader is kinda a bitch but like in a good way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:00:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29762079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swan_dive/pseuds/swan_dive
Summary: Iwaizumi Hajime was more than content to not be at the receiving end of the hordes of fangirl's attention. But when they all suddenly devote their time and love to him, he can't help but quickly want an out.It's Oikawa's suggestion- a good one at that. Get a girlfriend to scare them off.And what better than use you, Iwaizumi's best friend with a long standing crush on him, to play the role.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime & Reader, Iwaizumi Hajime/Reader, Oikawa Tooru & Reader, platonic oikawa/reader
Comments: 13
Kudos: 41





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> i'm planning on making this a six/seven part series but be warned, updates will be rather slow considering school and work but im rather excited about this! if you all like it though, i might just say fuck a degree and thirst over iwa full time. major: haikyuu, minor: iwaizumi hajime, papa: johns. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!

Iwaizumi Hajime was hand sculpted by the gods, the entire female student body deduces with fanatic agreement one blessed afternoon. His shoulders are broad, skin rippling like waves breaking on rocks under the movement of his muscles. His stomach is firm and taut with the lining of his abs and his pectorals are considerably large enough to have every single girl in attendance foam at the mouth. And as he raises one— _bulging_ — arm to wave sheepishly to the widened eyes of the crowd, his thick and veiny hand on full display, a collective moan is heard throughout the building. It has the poor boy ducking his head downward even further. 

The fundraiser arranged to cover the expenses of the volleyball team’s traveling to away games exceeded its initial goal (that of which the all-female led student council was greatly responsible for) resulting in the entire team parading themselves around the cafeteria as a reward for the students’ commitment to the task. 

_Shirtless._

And while attention from the female population has usually always been paid to the star setter, Oikawa Tooru and all of his addicting charm, his absence in this mouthwatering and delectable ceremony has allowed for the ace and vice-captain of the Seijoh Volleyball Team to shine. Oh, and shine, he has. 

Within a mere five minutes, the fiercely devoted and militant fan club belonging to Oikawa has suddenly converted— _briefly_ , they insist— to the groupies of Seijoh’s Vice Captain: powerful ace, leader of offense, _total hottie._

The attention increases tenfold from that point on. Suddenly, Oikawa is no longer the only one receiving love confessions numerous times on a daily basis (much to his chagrin), but instead is sharing the spotlight with his best friend, who is more than uncomfortable with the unexpected shift in notice. He was never ecstatic at being labeled as ‘Oikawa’s number two’, adamant that he was his own entity despite the intricate intertwinement with his best friend, he was, in fact, totally fine with never being hounded by girls at every minute of the day. Sure, the attention would be nice, _occasionally_. 

But this? This is outrageous.

This is the tenth girl today to have stopped by his locker, a pink flush encompassing her face as she sticks her hands out to present something to Iwaizumi. It’s tupperware, decorated in a pink bow with his name written in cursive on the top accompanied by some cute glitter stickers. That would make this the fourth container he’s received this morning, and as much as the whole act fills him with a deep dread and hesitation, he doesn’t have the heart to reject her gift. Especially when her hands are shaking so hard and she’s stuttering every other word out. 

So he puts on the standard smile, the one that he’s seen Oikawa pump out a hundred times a day but fails to meet in equal warmth and charm, and thanks her graciously and sincerely— even though he’s not that big a fan of milk bread and this is the third one he’s going to have to shove into his locker. 

He bows to her with an awkward smile, “Ah, thank you, uh…”

“H-Hina!” she shouts, her hands slapping upward towards her mouth after the outburst. The pink flushes deeper on her skin, and Iwaizumi has to wonder what exactly is going through the air for a girl to have this kind of reaction to him. He hasn’t changed, hasn’t developed a new attitude that should have girls swooning at his feet. He’s the same as always, stubbornly so. He is Iwaizumi Hajime, hard-ass, avid monster movie watcher and the usual second thought. He supposes he should feel somewhat elated at the long-awaited recognition, but he can’t shake off the feeling that this is all incredibly unwarranted. 

It's a surface value attraction. They're not really swooning for him, just the idea of him. That stings a bit more than he’d like to admit.

“Hina,” he affirms with a gentle nod, bowing his head in gratitude, “Thank you for the treat. I will, uh, treasure every bite.”

He doesn’t mean it to be anything charming (because he’s not) nor even remotely romantic (because it’s not), it’s just what he comes up with at the top of his head, but Hina starts to shake and a watery smile spreads across her face when she hears it and he knows he’s made this whole thing much worse. Before he can even awkwardly ask if she’s alright, she bows hurriedly again before running off with a shriek. 

It's then that he’s sure Oikawa is one sadistic motherfucker because there is no way anyone mentally sane could take that reaction as a compliment. There’s an intense guilt that settles in his stomach for the rest of the day for causing a girl to tremble like that. 

Curse the student council for that stupid fundraiser award. He would much rather walk to every away game than have to go through another day of this. 

He opens his locker again, placing the container in there amongst all the other ones and the numerous handmade cards declaring affection. He closes it with a sigh. He can only hope that this phase of adoration is reaching its end. 

Quickly.

**

It does not end quickly. 

It's month three of endless confessions and Iwaizumi is about to lose his mind. Word spreads about his favorite kinds of teas and sweets (which he is sure Oikawa is directly responsible for) and his locker starts to resemble a mall kiosk more than any part of school property. The outside is decorated with stickers and taped with more love cards and he’s pretty sure someone found out his combination ( _again_ ) because there are balloons floating out of it.

It's a circus. One that Mattsun and Hanamaki repeatedly laugh about every time they see it. 

He would like to indulge in the acts or at least make some kind of peace with the situation, he really would. He’s always fantasized in passing about the pride and specialty one must feel at being the center of female attention, having seen it and thwarted it first hand from Oikawa’s fans, but the longer this drags on the more fraudulent he starts to feel.

How can he enjoy his favorite foods when the girls giving it to him are blinded by a false idea of him? They’re not genuine, and if he accepted them, he would only feel like a bad guy, taking advantage of poor girls who haven’t got the slightest clue about him. Because Iwaizumi doesn’t have the million dollar smile like Oikawa does, nor does he have the oozing charm and commercial personality. 

He’s hard, and stubborn, and less inclined to entertain bullshit— the complete opposite of shitty-kawa. So whatever perception these girls think they have of Iwa, they’re wrong. and he can’t accept gifts from these girls who think they love him, when in reality, he’s the furthest thing from what they assume he is. 

“Why are you so adamant to believe that what they feel isn’t real? What's so ridiculous about liking you? Hmm?” Oikawa sings with a laugh one afternoon, the whole team crammed into the club room as they change out of their practice gear. the other guys snicker at Iwaizumi’s dismay, the usual frown painted on his face is permanently etched deeper into his skin and he knows they’re all getting a sick enjoyment from his torture.

The constant reliability to the chaos Oikawa brings is now subjected to his own taste of havoc. And he’s absolutely miserable. 

In all of his stubborn self-sufficiency, he’s refused to even indulge the guys with a verbal complaint, simply grumbling at the gifts before moving on with his day. Intent on dealing with this problem on his own and prohibiting himself from being a burden to anyone else. 

But he’s off his a-game in practice and the crease between his eyebrows is now a persistent feature on his face these days.

“Because it's not real,” he grunts, throwing his sweaty shirt into his sports bag, “They don’t like me.”

Hanamaki snorts from across the benches, a wide smile on his face as he unlaces his shoes and sings, “They only like him for his _bodyyy._ ”

“Can you blame them? Who would ever like Iwa for his personality?” Matsukawa joins him in snickering, earning a killer glare from the victim in question. _Not helping._ They only laugh harder. 

“So what?” Oikawa questions amusedly, ignoring the sarcasm dripping from the other two third years, leaning his body against the lockers as he watches his best friend ripple with frustration. A constant sight these days.

“ _So what_ ?” Iwaizumi turns to look at him, incredulity furrowing his features as his friends look at him like he’s grown a third head for being reasonably uncomfortable with this, “It's weird. They’re giving all of these nice gifts to a guy they barely know _and_ they all look at me like a piece of meat.”

“God, girls objectifying you? The _horror.”_ Mattsun torts again, earning a water bottle thrown at his face.

“So _what?_ ” Oikawa laughs again, the kind of laugh that reverberates around the room and rings a little too loudly in his ears. He’s heard this laugh thousands of times over the years, coming out to play when Oikawa is far too keen on putting Hajime as the butt of a joke. The mockery is clear in his voice, bleeding in the two simple words yet weighing like a hundred. He can usually take it, dish it back with equal fervor to his best friend, but this time around, he _can’t_. 

This whole mess of a situation sits heavily on his shoulders and for the first time, any attempt to just barrel through a problem like he so often does seems pointless to Hajime. Because no matter how much he ignores, no matter how often he declines, the girls will continue to only see Seijoh's ace. Not Iwaizumi Hajime. 

He sighs. He doesn’t know what he was expecting in venting to his friends. Validation if they were any nicer, but deep down he knew it would take a different trajectory. 

Maybe they’re right; Maybe he is blowing this out of proportion. Maybe he should just accept the gifts, enjoy them while he can because the girls are _choosing_ to do it. They’re not being held against their will, nor is anyone really being hurt by these peculiar circumstances. It's, theoretically, a win-win.

It doesn’t stop the pit in his stomach from sinking even lower when he sees girls stop their chattering in the hallways as he passes. It doesn’t stop the overwhelming feeling of disappointment he feels when he notices they stare at his biceps before his face before dashing away. 

Matsukawa shuts his own locker with a grumble, “Must be nice.”

“You wanna take my place, Issei?” Iwaizumi turns to look over his shoulder, meeting the mischievous twinkle of the middle blocker. 

“Yeah man, I do. Girls at my feet everyday bringing me food? That’s every guy’s dream.”

“Yeah, if every guy was a piece of shit like you.” The words tumble without second thought and Hanamaki finds himself clutching his stomach with laughter at the retort. He doesn’t mean to direct his anger at his friend, but it seeps into his words anyways. He’s lucky they’re good enough sports to take it in stride. Even if the twinkle in Matsukawa’s eyes dims and he grumbles a “shut up” while he slaps the back of Hanamaki’s head. 

He knows a solution— or sympathy— won’t be offered in his venting, adamant that this is something he needs to solve on his own, but he can’t help himself. He just has to get it out. “I can't even go to class normally anymore. There’s always a girl waiting for me.”

His back is turned towards his friends as he folds his gym clothes into the open cubby, but even despite the absence of his facial expression, the other three sitting near him can hear the exhaustion in his voice. Much as they might tease him, they’ve sat front and center to the slow decline of Hajime’s sanity and comfort as he was thrust suddenly into the spotlight that he was ill-prepared for. He’s laughably out of his element, but his plight is severe enough for all three of them to occasionally step in.

Hanamaki and Mattsun have had their fair share of instances in which they’ve had to redirect of a horde of girls hounding at them for Iwaizumi’s location, telling them that they had _no idea where Iwaizumi could have gone_ when in fact, he was hiding in the clubroom. And while they would’ve been more than happy to send them his way just to watch him fluster and stutter, the two friends knew the momentary laugh wouldn’t have been worth the further depletion of Hajime’s confidence and happiness. Iwaizumi wants this attention to be for something genuine, for something that he was directly responsible for and can be proud of. Not something as surface value as an attractive body. 

Truth be told, all three of Seijoh's third years want to help him as much as Iwaizumi wants this to be over. But just like him, they have no idea what to do.

Hajime sighs again, “Don’t even get me started about when I’m with (Y/N). You think stalking is bad? Try having to deal with evil glares too.”

Scratch that. They have _one_ idea.

The mention of the ace’s other best friend, the one that they’re all too familiar with, has all of Seijoh's members perking their heads upward in interest. A lightbulb going off simultaneously as they all share a glance with one another. Hanamaki looks up to Oikawa who looks to Mattsun who looks to Hanamaki. Their eyes darting between one another, telepathically asking the same question.

_Are you thinking what I'm thinking?_

Hanamaki and Mattsun finalize their answer with a hard stare at Oikawa and smirks on their faces. They both give a long nod to their captain and like the well-oiled machine the Seijoh Volleyball Team is known to be, a plan is formulated and put into action before anyone can blink. 

“Oh?” Oikawa prods, taking the initiative. His grin is suddenly more wicked than before, “How so?”

Iwaizumi notices the subtle change in tone in the conversation, can hear the smile in Oikawa’s words, but he doesn’t think much of it. Simply attributing it to the mention of the beloved figure they’re all acquainted with. He can’t blame them, finding his own mood has tipped upward at the mere thought of you. And while he has apologized to the moon and back for inadvertently getting you involved in this nightmare of a situation, there’s a resounding comfort he feels at knowing that there's at least one person on his side. One person that is willing to trudge through the mud with him, regardless of how often they complain.

Because whatever happens to him happens to you, you insist. So if he has to deal with a hundred fangirls, then so do you. 

He plows on, airing out his struggles and frustrations with his newfound attention. “They’re always staring at us, making the whole thing uncomfortable when we’re just hanging out. (Y/N) even told me she once got cornered in the girls’ bathroom during lunch.”

Oikawa gasps, always enthralled with any juicy gossip, especially on the rare occasion that it involves you— his beloved, headstrong, annoying _other_ best friend. “What did they say?”

“Some weird shit about staying away from me, like I was their property.”

“And what did (y/n) say?”

Iwaizumi laughs, a genuine one that has been missing since this whole ordeal began. He turns to look at his friends, the smile reaching his eyes and pushing upwards on his cheeks. If they weren’t sure of their plan before, the happiness on his face was enough of a push to solidify it. The happiness that only someone specific can bring out. “It's (Y/N). What do _you_ think she said?”

Oikawa, all too familiar with your personality and deviance from the norm since age ten, huffs out a laugh, “Hmm, let me guess, something about doing whatever she wants with whoever she wants.” 

“No, actually, she—” 

_You’re washing your hands in the sink of the bathroom when you hear a cough from behind you. Looking upwards into the mirror, you are suddenly confronted with the reflection of six girls circling around you._

_A groan tumbles out of your mouth. You knew something like this was bound to happen, jealousy always emerging victorious whenever girls were thirsting after a young man. You just didn’t think it would be happening so soon, only two months into the fanatic obsession with your best friend. It’s your fault really, you should’ve prepared for a moment like this to come. But as they all shoot daggers into your reflection you can’t help but recognize how woefully dreadful this is._

_You'd kill Hajime for inadvertently getting you into this if he wasn’t already feeling so guilty about it._

_Each one stares at you with an intense fury, and while you’ve never considered yourself to be much of a fighter, you’re mentally preparing yourself to throw a couple of punches in this cramped bathroom. You won’t win, six against one is hardly a story of triumph, but you’ll be damned if you get intimidated by this raging group of hormones._

_The faucet stops, with almost impeccable comedic timing, and a silence emanates throughout the area. It's awkward, painfully so and their silent stares are not helping._

_“Uh… Can I help you?”_

_The one in the middle (the leader, you assume) stands with a hip jutted out and her arms crossed. You’ve seen her in passing before. Her eyes narrow at your question, “So, are you two dating?”_

_You have to force yourself to not roll your eyes. Of course this is where this was going. Because God forbid anyone have friends of the opposite gender. Indicator number one that the interest of these girls was superficial, considering if they even really had been interested in more than the prospect of having access to Iwaizumi’s body, they would’ve realized that you’ve been in his life for a lot longer than he’s had any redeeming qualities— including those rocking arms of his._

_You won't entertain this, something you’ve been adamant about even if Hajime has insisted you don’t , especially not when it's causing Iwa all this grief that you’ve had to comfort him through time and time again._

_“Who’s asking?” You all but bark back, patience wearing thin._

_The one to the right of the leader— Pigtails, you’ve taken to calling her— scoffs and stomps her foot, “We are, obviously!”_

_Patience is below the ground now._

_The left one, the one with pink hair, speaks this time, “Iwaizumi won’t even talk to us for more than a minute but he lets you hang around! So, if you’re not dating you have to tell us!”_

_“Why?”_

_“So that you can help us get closer to him!”_

_“Yeah, no.” you respond curtly, feeling rather nauseous at the lengths in which these girls are going just to get his attention. Cornering his friend and doing a piss-poor job at intimidating them into coercing them for information about him. No wonder Hajime's been feeling so depressed._

_Taking the piss out of him used to be fun, something you and Oikawa could share profound pleasure in, but now that it's at your front door and reeking of death, you’re quickly realizing just how much you owe that spiky haired idiot._

_You grab your bag that lay at your feet, turning to face the six girls with a mirthless smile despite the hatred burning in their eyes._

_“Good luck with… whatever it is you’re trying to do.”_

_You’re almost out the door when the leader, who has puffed out her chest and taken a step forward blurts out, “If you’re not going to help us, then you better stay out of our way.”_

_There are few people in this world that you’ve dreamt about punching. Oikawa has made the list a couple times, but that’s only when he’s being particularly obnoxious. Iwaizumi has too, usually when his hard headedness has conflicted with yours, but even then the situation is usually better within the next hour._

_But this girl, oh this girl, she has made the top of your list in record time. And you highly doubt she’s coming off of it anytime soon. And now that you’ve gotten a good look at her, you’re starting to remember exactly where you’ve seen her before._

_You raise an eyebrow at her intimidation, “Or what?”_

_(You have to pat your back for that one because you really sound like the scary third year you’ve always dreamt of being.)_

_She doesn’t falter in her misplaced confidence, a smile pulling at her lips, “If he’s not yours, then he’ll be one of ours soon enough. And I can promise you, every boyfriend I've ever had always dropped his girl best friends when I asked.”_

_“Uh huh,” you glance at your watch that shows there are only fifteen minutes left in lunch. Might as well start on your meal now._

_You pull the backpack slung over your shoulder in front of you, unzipping the large pocket and pulling out a familiar container. The girls gasp when they see it._

_It's pink and has a little cat design on the front of it. Very cute and very distinct. You pop open the top, grabbing the milk bread that lies inside with your left hand and holding the lid and the box with your right. The lid is tilted forward, granting all the girls clear viewing of the cursive ink that lies on it._

_The name is clear and the handwriting incredibly recognizable. The leader’s mouth gapes open._

_You take a bite out of the treat, a dramatic moan escaping your mouth. You point at the girl, “Mm. You made this right?”_

_She doesn’t answer. None of them do. They only stare with wide eyes._

_“I remember seeing you give this to Iwa this morning. It’s really good. He's not a big fan of milk bread, so he’s been giving them to me but I’ve enjoyed every single one of them! Although I am getting tired of eating the same thing over and over. So, if you’re taking suggestions, try Agedashi Dōfu. It's Iwa’s favorite.”_

_You lick your lips to make the point clearer. A gentle reminder of your place and their lack of one in his life. They seem to get it._

_“Right then. Bye ladies! This was fun! I’m sure Hajime will be thrilled to hear all about it.”_

Iwaizumi finishes recounting the story with a childlike wonder, meeting the furrowed brows and agape mouths of his friends with a joyous smile. There’s an unmistakable twinkle of affection in his eyes, one that he must not even realize is there. But it's noticeable, and his friends recognize it.

It's the same look he always gets whenever he talks about you. 

It was mean of you to humiliate those girls like that, he knows, but his smile when recounting the tale is more than indicative of his true feelings behind the action. He briefly lectured you about it after you told him, insisting that it was important to be nice to these poor girls who didn’t know any better, that you begrudgingly agreed to, but he thinks about it often. Thinks about it at practice, in the middle of class, and every time he sees you.

He didn’t know how he felt about it, but from the way it warmed his cheeks and filled his chest with a weird lightness, he knew he was ultimately appreciative of the action. Honored that you would stick up for him unapologetically and protect him from unassuming teenage girls.

It shouldn’t be much of a surprise. Were the roles reversed he would do the same for you in a heartbeat. But still, he thinks about it. A lot.

“I haven’t seen those girls since, but I have been getting a lot more Agedashi Dōfu, so I guess that’s a plus.” He shrugs his shoulders in nonchalance returning back to the contents of his locker but the remnants of a smile plays on his lips. 

“Well, how ‘bout that?” Oikawa coos. He steps closer to Iwa, placing his hands on the ace’s shoulders and giving them a good natured shake. 

“I think I have the perfect solution to your problem, Iwa-chan.”

**

“You fwan me chu do _wha_?” you ask, mouth full of milk bread as the boy in front of you conveniently avoids your eye contact. 

It's the seventh container he’s handed you this week, and while your little _incident_ has quickly diminished the amount he usually receives, there are still the occasional stray containers with the sweet that he instinctively hands to you. 

This time it came in a purple container. No outlandish designs or stickers like the other ones, but there is a written poem on the top comparing his eyes to the dirt of the Miyagi mountains. You _suppose_ that’s romantic, but your leniency only goes so far. Particularly when this poem has no clear rhyming pattern. 

You’ve long since passed the point of guilt for eating all of the treats that were clearly not meant for you. Hajime was much too conflicted with the gifts to even consider smelling them, so it serves as a solution to the problem to just give it to you. He doesn’t have to worry about maliciously taking advantage of these girls and you get food. 

Win-win.

And while you’re not that into milk bread (having eaten it almost everyday for the past couple of weeks), your consumption of it seems to give him some peace of mind. Out of sight, out of mind kind of thing. And really, that’s all you’ve ever wanted for him.

But this is going too far.

Swallowing the last piece of milk bread, you look up at the idiot from your place on the bench. He stands in front of you, hands shoved deep into his pockets and shuffling from foot to foot. 

“You’re joking, right?”

This is a joke. It has to be. There’s no way the world would be this cruel to you.

His eyes remain averted, his thumb and index finger pinching the bridge of his nose as if it would wake him up from this endless nightmare, “Look, it’ll only be until I can get these girls to back off of me a little.”

“No.”

“Wha— (Y/N).” He breathes out, a twinge of desperation and pleading seeping into his voice as he finally looks into your eyes. He doesn’t know what he expects to see, but the pure and unadulterated seriousness is not one of them. He’s almost convinced to drop the subject altogether. _Almost_.

“Whose idea was this?” You practically growl out, closing the container and cleaning your surrounding area of any stray crumbs. You thrust your hand outward, shoving the container his way. He takes it from you without question.

“Does it matter?”

“ _Whose_?”

“...Oikawa.”

 _Of course it was._ “I’m gonna kill him.”

“ _(Y/N)_ ,” he says your name more forcefully. It’s the same tone he uses with Oikawa when he’s being whiny. It's enough of a bite to have you stop rearranging your items for a brief moment, meeting his determined gaze with one of your own. He stares intently, eyes unwavering in their silent plea to make you understand.

That’s the worst part about it. He’s serious, and he’s confident that this is the only way to solve the problem that’s been plaguing him for the past three months. 

If there's one thing you know about Iwaizumi Hajime, it’s that he’ll solve any problem on his plate and won’t stop until it's fixed. He’s responsible to a fault, refusing to burden others unless absolutely necessary. The fact that he’s viewing this to be the only solution and actually trying to persuade you is indicative enough of how desperate he is. 

Even more so indicative of how truly fucked you are, considering you’ve already made a decision before he even explains further.

Damn him and that hard head of his. 

Damn Oikawa for knowing what he does and still dragging you into this mess. No doubt he was thoroughly enjoying this.

“Will you _please_ be my girlfriend?”

Damn that student council and their stupid fundraiser for getting Iwaizumi Hajime, the boy you’ve been best friends with since you were ten and had a crush on since you were thirteen, to ask you to be his fake girlfriend in order to thwart off hordes of fangirls. 

Damn you for already having an answer before you can even think twice.

Iwaizumi Hajime was hand sculpted by the gods, and they were all laughing at your expense now. 

  
  



	2. the story of us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His eyes are a sea of green that you can't seem to stop drowning in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's here! and it's a doozy!
> 
> warnings for this chapter: there is a brief discussion and vague mentioning of sexual assault in a conversation. there is no direct description nor does it happen to anyone, there is just the mention of it. if this at all makes you feel uncomfortable, please skip over! it's a small section and pretty noticeable where it starts so it's easy to gloss over. or if you'd rather skip the chapter entirely, please do! we'll be back to some fun chaos in the next chapter!
> 
> sexual assault is a serious matter and at no point in this fic do I intend to make it a plot device. it is simply just a topic of discussion that unfortunately all girls are aware of. please remember that no means no, and it is never your fault. 
> 
> other than that, enjoy!

You’re ten years old when you meet Iwaizumi Hajime for the first time. 

He’s an inch shorter than you, skinny, hair set in an unorganized mess of spikes, and he smells of sweat. It’s the least enticing first impression you’ve ever encountered, wondering briefly if this is what all of Miyagi Prefecture has to offer.

Because if so, you’re not looking forward to it.

He’s blocking the entrance to the neighborhood park with his bike, back facing towards you and an arm stretched outward-pointing at something across the park. The same park that your mother has forced you to attend, kicking you out of your new home filled with moving boxes, a warm smile on her face and a simple request to “go have fun”. 

A request that was starting to seem like more of a problem than you anticipated. 

You’re halted in front of the gates to the area for a solid minute, the boy in front of you being less than aware of your presence as he continues to shout from across the park.

“Grab all of them, Oikawa!” 

There’s another boy roughly the same age holding several items that look to be action figures close to his chest. His face is scrunched up and his shoulders slouched as he takes exaggerated sluggish steps while crossing the courtyard. He’s sweaty too, just like the boy in front of you.

“But there’s so  _ many _ , Iwaaa. Can’t you help me?” 

“You’re such a baby, Oikawa.” 

The one named Oikawa is about to respond when he stops his movements altogether. He merely points his finger, eyes fixated on something behind his black-haired friend.

You realize a bit too late that he’s pointing at you.

The friend, Iwa as he was called, turns his head with a questioning hum, green eyes meeting yours. A sea of emerald. 

“Oh,” he breathes out, voice high in timber and flooded in awkwardness, raising his hand in a shy greeting, “Uh, hi.”

“Hi,” you respond in equal awkwardness, the kind that only a new kid can embody. Uneasiness has been settled into your bones ever since the move was announced, and now, as you stand before two physical embodiments of your displacement in this area, the feeling seems to sink even deeper into your stomach. “You’re blocking the entrance.”

“Huh? Oh! Sorry ‘bout that.” He begins a cumbersome shuffle of pushing the bike he was sitting on backward, small grunts escaping his mouth as he tries to make space for you to enter. It’s a slow process, considering he teeters from side to side and struggles to smoothly retreat from the space. Oikawa snickers in the background, some teasing words being aired that you are too far to hear, but they must be irking enough considering Iwa mutters a “ _ shut up, idiot” _ in response.

The friendship is formidable, you don’t need to know them for long to see that. Envy and all its bitter acid coat your tongue.

“Are you the one that just moved in?” Oikawa speaks up.

You nod.

“How old are you? Are you going to Kitagawa Elementary? Have you already—”

Iwa interrupts the ferociously excited boy with a gentle scoff, “Calm down, Oikawa. Give her some air. Geez.”

“I just want to know more about the new girl, Iwa-chan!”

“Yeah, well you’re doing it wrong.”

Oikawa rolls his eyes and clutches the toys in his arms tighter, “You do it then!”

“Do what?”

“Introduce us! Make friends!”

“I think you blew it already.”

“Ugh, you’re no fun. If she’s going to the same place as us, she might as well join us! What do you say, new girl?”

You’re shaken from the brief exclusion of the conversation— realizing they’re including you this time— when Iwa tears his eyes away from his friend and meets yours once again. Upon connection with the emeralds, your throat constricts your throat and the relief of ease washes over. The hesitancy that was bubbling in your stomach starts to dissipate when he looks at you— almost comforted by his dark yet steady stare— but the sense is quickly replaced by something else that shakes you. Your skin prickles, like fire ants marching up the pattern of your skin, and your palms start to sweat despite the cooling temperatures and the light breeze blowing against your skin. 

You’d have to tell your mom about this, just to make sure you weren’t getting sick.

“Would you like to join us?” Iwa asks. There’s no trace of a smile on his face but the invitation isn’t lacking in warmth. It’s a subtle kind, almost imperceptible if it weren’t for the look of curiosity residing upon his features. He speaks gently, like there wasn’t a distance between you two and another person listening in on the conversation, pointing his question and attention solely at you. There was a center of his gravitational pull and it was in your direction.

He’s waiting for your answer, and not the kind that results after courteously asking someone a question; You can tell he is  _ really _ waiting, wanting to know what you say because his eyes hold onto yours in a way that is much more mature than a boy at the tender age of ten should be looking at someone. 

He’s sincere. He doesn’t even know you and yet he waits upon you as though your response were one he was to weigh considerably with his agenda. He’s a stranger, only said two things directly to you, and yet you feel weightless in the most minute of his attention. 

The rocks of anxiety that were sitting heavily in your stomach for the past month have disappeared and the answer that he waits so intensely for comes rather naturally. It’s the surest you’ve felt in a while. You don't know them at all, aren't even sure if you'll like them, but what would you be other than a fool to  _ not  _ follow the path of certain safety laid out in front of you, disguised as a black-haired boy with the spiky hair? How can you be sure unless you don't see for yourself?

“Yeah,” you sigh out, burdensome weight lifting off your shoulders at the answer, “Can I?”

“Yeah. You can.” He affirms with a nod, the corner of his lips quirking upward. Oikawa, rather befittingly, shouts a cheer, resuming his incessant chatter in throwing an onslaught of questions your way but you’re not listening. Pulled elsewhere you find your gaze being drawn back to the calm and steady boy, with the sea of emerald in his eyes.

“I’m Iwaizumi Hajime, by the way. And that’s Oikawa Tooru.”

“I’m (Y/N).” 

“Cool.”

You spend the whole day with them, quickly finding a natural place in their relationship, serving as the happy in-between of the flamboyant nature of Oikawa and the pillar of stone that is Iwaizumi. It’s fun, the most fun you’ve had in the entirety of your move that you find yourself trying to make some kind of excuse to extend the day when the sun starts to set. 

But Oikawa has to go home, and so does Iwa, and the disappointment is more than apparent on your face. There’s the unmistakable promise of seeing one another again, that of which was affirmed when Oikawa held out his pinky for you to take and solidify the statement on.

“I can walk you home if you want.” Iwaizumi tells you after you both wave your goodbyes to the other brunet. It’s a godsend, a miracle from the heavens who heard your building plight and decided to spare your jilted mind with some form of comfort. 

“Oh, you don’t have to,” you tell him, purely as a formality. Your mother’s lessons of never burdening others kicking into gear at his offer, but you plead, secretly in the deep recesses of your brain that he disagrees. Hope desperately that he’ll take the initiative and stay with you just a moment longer. 

He shakes his head, bearing a toothy smile that is missing one of his canines. “I don’t mind. My mom always tells me to make sure girls get home safe.”

Calm, steady, comforting. You selfishly agree before you have half a mind to say otherwise, “Okay. I live this way.”

And as he trails beside you, holding his bike in his hands as he walks at the pace you set, telling you the details about his favorite monster movie, you find yourself incredibly enamored with the short, sweaty boy that hates green tea and loves summertime.

And not for the first time.

You’re thirteen when you realize that you have a terribly, horribly, deeply incessant crush on Iwaizumi Hajime. 

It’s lunchtime and while you’re usually quick to eat with the resident bickering duo of Sendai, they’ve ditched you for volleyball practice— and not for the first time. So you sit with your other group of close friends, the ones you made through the conventional school setting, and not because they impulsively adopted you into their routine. They’re the necessary and equal balance to the growing testosterone you religiously spend your weekends with, so ultimately you’re not too upset at being left behind for a sport. 

Besides, it’s nice to be surrounded by girls who talk about normal things instead of sweaty violent boys that only talk about volleyball and occasionally the things you like.

Mai, a girl with a short bob that frames her round face, shakes the table with her loud laughter, the curtain of her hair swaying in tune to her joyful movement. She was the first friend you made in this group, and easily the one you’re closest to. The complete opposite of Hajime if her unabashed, frantic excitement is anything to go by. But much like the spaces in this Miyagi heart of yours that’s dedicated to Tooru and Hajime, there’s one for her too. She grabs onto one of your arms and holds it tightly, seeking stability as her melodic laughter rings through your table. 

It’s hard not to laugh alongside her. 

“Please!” She begs Yua, a blonde girl in the year above you, and wipes her eyes free from the laughter-induced tears, “No more! I’m gonna pee!”

Yua huffs, shrugging her shoulders to say that Mai’s inability to hold her urine was beyond her control, “I’m serious! That’s how I found out Kaito had a crush on me!”

“And what did you do?” You ask, laughter lacing your own words at the tale Yua expertly weaved, describing in excruciating detail how Kaito from your third period wrote a love letter comparing Yua’s lips to that of a whale as if that was somehow a compliment.

“I ran away! What else was I supposed to do?!”

Mai howls with laughter, her body being thrown against yours and her arms flailing with the movements, unable to contain herself. You’re almost identical, finding that you follow Mai’s gesticulation in perfect countering. Where she pushes you left, you move in sync, allowing her to lean her weight on you as you both lose yourself in the story.

For as much seriousness as she tries to implement in her words, the quirking of her lips betray Yua, “Laugh all you want, but wait ‘til this happens to you! Then you’ll get it!”

“I don’t think Mai and I have to worry about that,” you tell her, the remainder of your laughter dying out of your words. Mai snaps upward, her body no longer slumped against yours, and instead of facing you with furrowed brows and an offended expression.

The two friends speak simultaneously, one with indignation and the other with confusion “Why not?”

The pointedness of the question makes it seem as though your words were wrong, a misstep in a direction that you have to apologize for. Regardless of whether or not you know why. “Uh, ‘cause no one likes us like that?”

Mai scoffs, crossing her arms and tilting her nose upwards, “Speak for yourself.”

“Sorry, no one likes  _ me  _ like that. So I don’t have to worry.” You say with a smile punctuating the statement with a scoop of rice into your mouth. It wasn’t a statement meant to be considered deeply, it was a simple fact. There were hardly any thirteen-year-olds looking your way, and even if there were, it wasn’t like your attention was focused on them either. All the boys in school were either too annoying or too stupid.

Except for Hajime. He was the only tolerable one. Oikawa fell into the “too annoying” category. But you still loved him—sometimes.

Yua and Mai share a glance, a fleeting look before they look back at you, “You’re joking, right?”

You look up from your food to meet their furrowed stares, “What?”

They share another glance, Mai answering Yua’s silent question with a shrug of her shoulders. You’re completely left in the dark. “Wait, what’s going on?”

“Okay, so what if,” Yua begins, the familiar teasing lilt that you’ve widely associated with the blonde returning, stressing on the ‘if’, “someone  _ did _ like you. What would you do?”

They both look at you with waggling eyebrows, like they’ve cornered you into the exact hypothetical they want you to be in. While this isn’t necessarily an unfamiliar place to be in, it is a weird one, considering you and boys have never really been the topic of conversation unless Iwa and Oikawa were somehow brought up. But your friendship with them was well known and not exactly hidden at all. It wasn’t sensational, nor was it the topic of gossip. Neither was the fact that you aren’t exactly the kind of girl the boys of Kitagawa First were looking at  _ if _ they were even looking at girls.

“But no one likes me like that.”

“Answer the question.”

You gesture in exasperation, “I don’t know! I’m not really into anyone like that, so I guess I’d say no?”

The two girls pause again, sharing another look. 

“Okay, can you two  _ stop  _ that?”

Mai speaks up this time, almost disbelieving, “You  _ really _ don’t like anyone?”

“Am I supposed to?”

Yua sings, “Not even  _ Iwaizumiii? _ ”

The chopsticks that you held deftly in your hands go limp and a straight shot of shock runs down your spine. Time stands still in this cramped cafeteria and it feels like your head has been dunked into a bucket of cold water, halting the train of thought and highlighting every possible exit in this building.

The red lights of panic have turned on in your brain and they’re screaming at you to  _ run. _

“I— I don’t— what are you guys talking about?” 

Your two best friends, who now resemble Satan’s assistants more than anything remotely positive to you, share their third unspoken glance, and you’re about to lose it. 

“So,” Yua starts again, tearing her sly eyes from Mai’s excited ones, “You  _ do  _ like him?”

Code red. Abandon ship. Abort. R-U-N.

“ _ No! _ He— I—  _ We’re just friends!”  _

“Oh my god!” Mai slams her hands on the surface of the table, her brown eyes boring into your widened ones as she leans over to invade your personal space and poke your chest.

“You  _ like  _ him!”

The brain that is usually so quick with an excuse, trained to be sharp-witted and smart from years of intense teasing from Tooru and Hajime, suddenly feels like mush in your head. Ooey, gooey mush that can’t come up with anything but stuttering, “N-No” at the idea of having some romantic inclination towards Hajime. The best friend you hang out with every weekend; The boy that always walks you home and always makes sure your comments are heard; The spiky-haired idiot with a sea of emerald in his eyes that you always seem to drown in.

But, that’s not— that doesn’t mean— No. 

You don’t like Hajime like that. He’s just a really really good friend. That you enjoy spending time with. That makes you feel comfortable with just a single look. The friend that you always want around, regardless of the kind of day. Yeah. That’s it. 

Hajime is just  _ that  _ kind of person.

Yua gives an unconvinced hum and taps her bright pink nails on the table surface, “When you think about another girl liking him, do you get jealous?” 

Mai backs up from your face to give a wide smile at the blonde, pointing at her wickedly and almost shouting, “Ooh! Good question!”

“Thanks, I read it in my sister’s magazine.”

Mai turns back, almost touching your nose with hers, “Well? Do you?”

The “no” is on the tip of your tongue as an instinctual defense against this personal interrogation, but it doesn’t come out. Partly because of the mush of your brain but also because you know any denial of that question just simply isn’t true; Because when Saran followed Hajime around all day in grade six, you distinctly remember being in a foul mood for a while.

A mood that could only be fixed when Hajime indirectly affirmed that he did not like her.

Oh god.

You like Hajime.

You like his stupid face and his stupid laugh and the stupid way he teases you and the stupid way he makes you feel.

Your friends laugh in your face for a solid minute while you hang your head in your hands, certain that your life was completely over with the new revelation. Yua is the instigator, teasing you relentlessly over the silent confession while Mai asserts that this is the beginning of a fairytale. 

She says it with such conviction that you’re almost inclined to believe her until reason kicks in, and the shamefulness of the situation kicks in. You push it down, fine with keeping the acknowledgment exactly where it is, right under your thumb. That is until Oikawa finds out about it and then suddenly, it’s no longer in your control.

You’re fourteen when he corners you after school. He’s walking you home, taking Hajime’s usual role when said boy and subject of your plight had to stay home with the sick. 

You don’t think he’s going to bring it up, hardly aware he even knows about it, but he does making you choke on your spit and trip over a crack in the sidewalk. He clutches his stomach in a guffaw. 

“Did you really think you could hide it from me?” Tooru teases, his finger poking at your heated cheek that you quickly swat away. 

“I’m not hiding anything, Tooru,” you mutter, keeping your head turned downwards. If Oikawa even sees a smidgen of embarrassment he would never let you live it down.

“Oh, please. You’re so easy to read, especially when Iwa-chan is around. You’re all,  _ ‘oh Iwa, you’re so smart and funny. I want to be with you forever. Mwah, mwah, mwah!’ _ ” His hands are interwoven beside his head and he attempts a poor, high-pitched imitation of your voice. Again, Oikawa Tooru belongs in the “too annoying” category that most eighth-grade boys find themselves in. 

You lift your left leg, thrusting your shin outward to kick the taller boy in his behind, a move all too familiar. Really, Oikawa should have seen it coming, having had it done to him so often by Iwaizumi. He’s too swept up in the antics of teasing, though, that it surprises him and the pain in his bottom is sharp. His hands cover the stinging area. 

“Ow, (Y/N)!”

“That’s what you get for being stupid.”

“See! You even act him like him!”

You raise your fist upward and he raises his hands in defense, cowering at the threat of more pain, “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

He lowers his hands, one eye closed and the other peeking from behind his lowering fingers, “Gosh, so  _ violent _ . I’m only trying to help!”

“I don’t need help.” You grumble.

You continue your trek onward, desperate to put as much distance between yourself and this nightmare of a conversation. But it’s not that simple. There are now three people that have realized the truth of your crush in less than a year— all of which are your closest friends. It’s only a matter of time before the friend above them all realizes it too. 

Worst off, only a matter of time before someone tells him. 

You turn towards Tooru with a speed that has him flinching and thrusting his hands upward for protection again. A yelp echoes around the empty street and was it not for the intensity behind your desperation, you probably would have laughed.

“Tooru.” There’s a rasp in your voice, one that you aren’t exaggerating. It makes Oikawa uncomfortable hearing such a serious depth to your previously annoyed cadence. In his continuously growing height, he stares down at you, fear crumpling his face.

“Don’t say my name like that—”

“You  _ cannot _ tell Hajime.”

He straightens his posture out, hand rubbing the back of his neck. A brow is raised quizzically, “Isn’t that the whole point of having a crush? So that you can eventually  _ tell _ that person about it?”

It’s not like you expect him to understand,  _ hell _ , you don’t even understand it yourself. All you know is that Hajime cannot know about it; There are too many factors, too many problems that can happen. Besides, you’re sure it’s just a tiny crush, one that will go away after a couple of months. 

And even if it didn’t, you still wouldn’t be able to tell him. Because you’ve been best friends for four years now, and if there was anything remotely remarkable about you, you’re sure something would’ve happened already. Because Hajime is strong, decisive, and steady. If he wants something, he goes for it; And if he wanted you, in any capacity like the way you want him, he would’ve said something. 

But he doesn’t because you’re his best friend. Nothing is outstanding about you, nothing that would make you more than just the girl he’s friends with. Nothing that would make you any different from “just one of the guys”.

He would never see you as anything but. 

So, it’s just easier to have Hajime as a friend than to risk it all for a likely rejection. You could swallow the feelings, bury them deep inside of you for the rest of time. It would be significantly easier than never talking to him again because you couldn’t be a big girl and not make things awkward. 

You try to tell Oikawa as much, “It’s— I just— It would be easier if he didn’t know. It’ll go away soon.”

The brunet tilts his head to the side, kind of like a pouty puppy. When he’s not being a teasing butthead, he’s rather gentle with you, considerate of your emotions, and above all, eager to understand.

“Do you want it to go away?”

“Like I said, it would just be easier.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

A quiet settles between the two of you and it feels like it’s oceans wide. You, stranded out at sea in the terrorizing waves of emotions, and he, the lighthouse built on the rocks. Tall and fixed, beckoning you towards his stable ground of reason. It’s a brief reminder that when Oikawa tries, he’s not that annoying. He’s rather kind and empathetic.

“Do you want Hajime to like you?”

The deep cocoa eyes dig into you and the waves crash even more ferociously around you.

Cotton dries up your mouth, and the ache that always pains your heart whenever you think about Hajime returns in full force, “He never will.”

Oikawa huffs out a breath, back becoming imperceptibly straighter while he crosses his arms. It’s hard to imagine him as anything but that sweaty boy you met on the playground, but he stands before you a giant, body filling out from all the volleyball practice and the baby features of his face evening out to become the handsome boy girls were starting to see him as. He radiates his kind of steadiness, one different from Hajime, but equally as comforting.

It’s admirable— he’s admirable— when it's not pinned against you.

“And how do you know?”

“Tooru,” you sigh, exhaustion suddenly creeping up your shoulders along with the overwhelming urge to cry, “Please.”

You don’t feel like explaining all the intricacies of your perceived inadequacy and thank the gods above he’s a good enough friend to know when to stop prying, “Fine, fine. I’ll leave it alone. For now.”

You stare up at him, searching his face for any notion of deceit or subterfuge, “You promise you won’t say anything?”

“Yeah, yeah,” He waves his hand in dismissal, rolling his eyes in that way that portrays annoyance but the love is there. He understands you, at least. 

You hold out your pinky for him, “Pinky promise?”

“What are we, ten?” 

You hold your finger out further, almost waving it in his face. It’s the staple of trust in your friendship, instituted early on between you and him, and only you and him. He can’t back out now.

He takes it with a sigh of his own, huffing out his breath, and twisting his long, slender finger with yours. You shake his hand in affirmation, letting go only when you feel comfortable in the validity of his promise and resuming your walk home. 

He throws an arm over your shoulder, squeezing you tightly to his body, “Eventually you’re going to have to say something.”

“I know.” 

“I hope you know I’m never letting you live this down.”

“It’s like you want me to hit you again.”

Maybe he’s right. Maybe in the future, when you’re more comfortable with the fact that it’s your best friend of all people that gives you butterflies in your stomach, you’ll do something about it. But not right now, not when he spends all his time in volleyball and especially not when you were barely confident in yourself. Or maybe, it’ll go away, and you can look back on this as a funny memory rather than anything serious.

You’re fifteen when you finally accept the circumstances and become resigned to it. Finally understanding that your crush is more than just a crush, but knowing full well that that’s all you can let it be.

Hajime sits on the floor, surrounded by your regular friends plus a couple of others at Oikawa’s birthday party when he says it. You’re not supposed to hear it from your place in the kitchen, but you do and it’s a dagger to both heart and confidence. He’s confirmed everything you knew and quelled any potential rebuttal of thoughts Mai or Tooru have planted in your head. 

You were stupid to think Hajime could ever see you as anything more than the girl he’s just friends with.

Your appetite quickly dissipates and you have to work extra hard to make sure pure despair doesn’t show on your face. Especially when Oikawa hears it too and he makes that face that looks like he wants to give you a hug, which makes everything ten times harder.

A kid named Matsukawa is the one that asks. You don’t blame him. He’s only fifteen, after all, asking what normal fifteen-year-olds normally talk about.

“What about (Y/N)? Would you date her?”

Hajime scoffs, a laugh on his lips as though it were the weirdest question he’s ever heard.

“She’s my best friend. That would be like dating my sister. I don’t like her like that.”

You’re fifteen and you’ve become resigned to it all, because it’s better to have Hajime as a friend, than to never have him at all. Because you would never have him; At least not in the way you want. 

You don’t blame him for that either.

You cry about it later on, after the party is over and after you deny Hajime’s insistence to walk you home. He has a weird look on his face when you tell him you’ll be fine, your house is only a few blocks away. He wants to fight you on it, can see the argument forming it in that storm of green. It’s a shitty feeling to deny him so blatantly, but you really can’t stomach being around him at the moment. Not when your heart pangs longingly for him and your insecurities increase tenfold at the confirmation of your inadequacy.

Not when all of this is happening at once, showing as clear as day on your face, and he sees it. Worst of all, not when he wants to solve it, hardly understanding that he’s the cause of it.

His eyes narrow, staring intently as he studies your features. The scrutiny is uncomfortable and if he does stares a second longer the tears  _ will  _ fall.

“Did… something  _ happen  _ during the party?” Hajime asks hesitantly. There’s a whirlwind of possibilities crossing his mind, all indicating rather unsavory and horrifying ideas that have his worry bubbling beneath his skin. You’re barely meeting his gaze, hands clasped tightly before you and body way too stiff. The complete opposite of your normal demeanor, especially around him.

Usually so open, so vibrant. And here you stand before him, the dark of night surrounding you and the fluorescent glow of the streetlamps casting a ghoulish light on your face, exaggerating your dejected features more prominently. 

He’s heard of worst-case scenarios when girls and boys get together, something mentioned in passing when his mother was on the phone with his aunt. He never really thought much about it, considering he would never do something like that and he doesn’t hang around many girls, to begin with for something like that to be an immediate concern.. 

In this stark contrast of a moment, however, he’s briefly reminded of the fact that he so often tends to forget. You’re a girl; A living, breathing, pretty girl. Everyone likes you, would be fools not to. And while he would never allow himself or anyone else to force themselves upon you, you weren’t with him for the whole party. Disappearing for a brief moment after he saw you enter the kitchen. The idea of something like that— something that horrible— happening to you under his nose has all of his instincts on fight mode, forget the flight. A shattering of the innocence he was so previously impervious to. 

The implication is clear in his voice accompanied with the fear-stricken features, so you can hardly miss what he means. 

“Did— Did anyone…?” His voice cracks and he hurriedly tries to clear it up with the clearing of his throat, but you heard it. It happens often when he’s wrestling with an onslaught of emotions, trying his hardest to remain calm and clear-headed and  _ focused _ that sometimes his voice just gives out. Also, puberty.

The act doesn’t matter though, not when he’s silently amping himself up to fight someone if you were touched inappropriately. He would win; He’s been in a couple of fights before, usually off school property, he doesn’t mind getting into another one. Not if it was for you. And he would win; Would make sure of that.

The tussle for calm is transparent on his face. Lips struggling to stay in a closed, neutral line rather than the frown he has to hold back. His fists clench, blunt nails digging into the skin of his palms to alleviate the growing anger, only to prove futile. He so badly wants to grab you by the shoulders, shake you furiously, ask what the  _ hell  _ is going on because you’re never like this—

He doesn’t. He knows better. Even if the suspense is driving him up the wall and the tension that encapsulates the empty street is thick and choking him. 

Finally, you say something.

“No, Haji,” you say softly, “No one did anything to me.”

It’s what Iwaizumi wants to hear; Should be ecstatic to know that you are physically unharmed, free from the taint that comes with a foreign touch, the one he’s intent to protect you from. Your voice is too quiet though, and the smile you give him is too small for him to feel any modicum of ease. You're lying.  _ Someone  _ did  _ something _ .

“I’m fine, really!” You try again, amping up the energy to convince him. It falls flat. 

“(Y/N).” That spiky head of hair tips forward, pushing himself in your averting line of sight, refusing to let you hide from him. He’s taller now, finally taller than you. While his hair is still that fluff of mess on his head, his eyes are still that piercing green that can always read you like a book and his favorite season is still summer, only this time he no longer enjoys going to the park, but instead the beach. 

He’s the same Hajime you fell in love with and the remainder is enough to cause a lump swell in your throat.

“What are you hidi—”

“Iwa-chan!”

The familiar melodious voice rings out in the empty street, its owner sauntering his way over to your departing figures. There’s that recognizable air of flowering confidence rolling off of him like a humid heat and the sly shining of his pearly whites that serves as a buffer from the thick air of tension between you and Haj— Iwaizumi.

Just, Iwaizumi. No added affection.

There's magic in Oikawa’s stroll, you’re sure of it. It looks perfectly coincidental, like he just so  _ happened _ to stumble upon a tense scene, instead of the very much needed and purposeful intervention for his emotionally crushed best friend and worry-fueled other best friend.

_ And they call him the idiot. _

He sighs that flowery breath of his, throwing his arm around Iwa’s shoulders and watching the desperation that filled your gaze wash away with relief at his intrusion. Iwa’s confusion only seems to increase, but truthfully, Oikawa isn’t too concerned with his hard-headed friend. He’s really only keen on getting you out of there— out to safety and away from the source of your heartbreak.

“Iwa-chan, you have to go set up the movie player. I have no idea how to work it.”

“I’ve shown you how to do it four times, Tooru.”

“But it’s so much easier when  _ you  _ do it. Don’t worry, I’ll walk our precious flower home while you set up for our sleepover.”

Iwaizumi hesitates, his eyes bouncing from the self-assured smile of Oikawa to your downturned gaze. There’s something wrong, he knows it. But it’s obviously a secret he isn’t allowed into. 

He won’t pry, he’s never been one to beg for secrets— never been one to want secrets told to him at all. However, there’s a particular sting at knowing that it’s  _ you  _ who’s hiding something and refusing to tell him. That there’s something Oikawa is aware about, that he isn’t allowed to know.

It’s not his business, he surmises.  _ You’re _ not his business. He swallows that bitter pill, accepting Oikawa’s offer with a brief nod. He’s not happy, that’s plain to see, but he knows better than to insert himself where he’s not wanted.

Calm, steady, comfortable. Iwaizumi will fight for what he wants, but not when it hurts you in the process.

He bids you a brief goodbye, voice tight and rigid, clearly displaying his dissatisfaction but accepting it nonetheless. He doesn’t even look back at you. It’s what you want, you suppose. Some distance from him for your benefit, so you can at least try and forget about how you feel; Save yourself from the devastation of falling even deeper in love with him. 

He enters Oikawa’s house. It’s a place you’ve been many times, slept over on many occasions yet, when Iwaizumi crosses the threshold with a strain on his shoulders and a grimace on his face, you can’t help but wonder if he’s finally going someplace that you can’t follow. If you’ve spent all these years pining over him, wondering if you would ever be enough for him, only to push him away into an area of no return. 

Oikawa doesn’t give you a moment to think long about it before he’s ushering you away from the crime scene where your uncontrollable and childish feelings have brutally injured a fraying friendship and guiding you home. He talks the entire time, about everything and nothing, and you’re rather grateful for the background noise. To finally think about something other than your broken heart and Iwaizumi’s betrayed face. 

He leaves you at your door with the promise that things will get better, that it won’t hurt so much, and that he’s always there for you. He places a sweet kiss on the crown of your head, turning his back with a final wave and leaving you alone with your thoughts. The promise of meeting one another again is unspoken, instinctive. You know deep down, though, it’ll be different from here on out. You’ll have to be more careful, more guarded with the things you say and do.

You wonder if Iwaizumi has as much trouble sleeping that night as you do. 

(He does. He doesn’t sleep at all.)

Things do get better, which is a blessed curse. The tension eventually resolves after a couple of weeks of tiptoeing around each other. Normality returns in full-swing and you’re able to talk to Hajime without the overwhelming feeling of guilt and need to explain everything; If he holds any issues about what happened that night, he doesn’t mention it, following your lead and letting the friendship return to normal.

The problem lies in the fact that Oikawa was ultimately right, and he makes a point to show that he’s right. That things did get better, and the fragmentation of your splintering relationship with the boy you love eventually gets patched up.

Life moves on.

The feelings don’t go away, but you get better at managing them. It’s significantly easier to push the pining down and not think too much about any passing romantic comments in school that pair you and Iwaizumi together; Nor do you think twice about the harmless flirting that occasionally comes your way. You dish it back, continuing the joking nature of the friendship and after a while, it doesn’t hurt so bad. You exit the stages of puberty and things don’t feel as hectic as they once were. 

The turbulent waves of emotions finally die down to a steady roll, and for a while, you’re able to float. It’s safe, peaceful, exactly how you want it to stay. 

That is until you’re seventeen, almost eighteen, and Iwaizumi asks you to be his fake girlfriend. The waves pick up steam and you’re drowning again. You have the girls of Aoba Johsai to thank for that. 

This time though, you’re determined to protect yourself. The anxiety of it all starts to settle in between your shoulders and instead of falling victim to the whims of an unsuspecting Iwaizumi once again, the urge to protect yourself and your pathetic emotions takes precedence. You will not be reduced down to the unconfident, love-sick girl you once were; You’ve worked too hard to do that. You matter more than Iwaizumi’s stupid girl problem.

It’s why you don’t think twice when you blurt it out after agreeing to help.

“We need a contract.”

“A contract?” Hajime parrots back, broad arms crossed over his equally broad chest and the intense training you’ve instilled in yourself to not  _ stare _ at him meets its limitations, lest you stoop down to the level of the girls he’s so desperate to evade. He’s grown so much, physically and personally, that it's hard to  _ not  _ look at him. You force yourself to glance around the crowded cafe, look anywhere but his veiny arms, and instead replace your view with the small restaurant you two frequent every Monday— the only day he has off from volleyball practice. 

It’s a small establishment that sells teas and noodles, a pleasant find to make one day when the both of you were hungry pre-teens and full of time on your hands. It’s usually rather empty during this time as it’s just out of the line of sight to avoid the after-school rush of students, but today the line extends outside of the door, all attendees eager to have a taste of miso ramen and pushing against bodies to do so. The people behind you are respectful enough to give you as much space as one can afford in the cramped venue, but you end up still having to press yourself into the stiff body of the boy— no,  _ man _ — beside you. 

You have the decency to look at least a  _ little  _ uncomfortable in the tightness of the situation, but Hajime shows nothing. Whether it’s because he doesn’t even care that your chest is bracing against his arm or he’s too distracted with the complicatedness of his “girl” problem, his face betrays no embarrassment at the closeness. No frustration, no discomfort, not even annoyance. He merely exists, dealing with your body pressed against his as if this were a regular occurrence and not an awkward preemption to the farce that you’ve stupidly agreed to. This would surely haunt you for the rest of your years. 

This man of steel, this monolith of lean, corded muscle, was going to be your “boyfriend” for the next couple of weeks. You would be lucky if this arrangement even lasted for that long considering the confession of pure unadulterated adoration is crawling up the canal of your throat and tearing the fabric of your skin, sticking a middle finger at the rational parts of your brain trying desperately to hold it back. 

Your fate is signed, knowing full and well that in your inability to deny Hajime— especially when he’s so desperate, which is a rarity in and of itself— you’ve willingly agreed to have your dignity and confidence stripped from your person and your feelings thrown in a loop for the sake of his sanity. 

It’s annoying. Every potential hypothetical plays itself in high definition across the theatre of your mind and each one ends with you being brutally rejected once again. There’s no way you could handle something like that again, no matter how much you’ve matured. 

This is a bad idea, and you need to tell him that.

But then the sight of pleading jades enters your vision and you distinctly remember the permanent frown that etched itself on Hajime’s face these past three months. Remember how the feelings of deep discomfort forced him to confide in you on a late-night phone call when sleep evaded him and he detailed the dread he felt at the prospect of going to school the next school day.

If your mouth even opened a fraction to breathe, you’re sure the “I’m in love with you and have been since sixth grade” will come tumbling out, but even the fear of that happening doesn’t overpower the overwhelming desire to help the man you’re madly in love with.

There’s a limit to what would be forsaken in the name of Iwaizumi Hajime’s happiness, but your sanity isn’t it.

The situation worsens when the subtle shifting of the patrons behind you throws you off balance and forces you impossibly closer to him. The shuffling of feet knocks into your own, tilting you off balance despite your leaning against Hajime. A rebuttal is on the tip of your tongue ready to be released in rapid-fire when Hajime beats you to it. 

He quickly wraps his arm around your waist, allowing your unsteady feet to find balance against his lean body of stone, clutching you tightly to his side as if the accidental push against you were a personal offense. 

The protective nature that so often lies dormant in his personality rears its head forward and you swear your heart stops beating altogether. 

“Easy,” he mutters, a layer of strict dismay interweaving in his words as he casts a pointed side glare at the two boys standing behind you. You hardly hear it, much too occupied with trying not to drown in the sudden flooding of his cologne in your nostrils. 

Musk and spice. His usual scent, but even more addicting when it’s this close. 

This is a bad idea. This is a horrible, bad, awful idea. Bad, bad,  _ bad _ idea.

You have to end this. You won’t survive this. 

“C-contract.” You, somehow, manage to spit out, shaking your head free from the waft of his scent and the strength of his arm across your back. 

Okay, not necessarily ending this but protecting yourself. Yeah, that’s it. Because there is no way you want him to keep acting like this,  _ no _ . You’re just doing this to help and totally not to selfishly indulge in the delight of being  _ his _ , even if it is fake. 

He tears his narrowed eyes away from the boys behind you to glance at you, the remnants of disapproval flickering in the sea of green that you  _ swear _ only evens out when he looks at you, “Right. What’s in this contract?”

“The, uh, basics,” you begin, voice slowly finding its footing after the intense whiplash you just experienced. You're surprised you can even form words that aren’t resembling proclamations of desire, “What we can and can’t do, how long this is for, and so on.”

“That’s a good idea,” He breathes out. The line shifts forward, and the cashier finally enters the field of view. With a quick recoil, as though his skin were burned by the action, he removes his hand from around your waist. The warmth of his arm rescinds with it, and that thirteen-year-old girl that has fantasized for years about this, whines in desperation. You quickly tell her to shut up.

He clears his throat, awkwardness filling the cramped and stale air, “Uh, sorry. About that.”

He avoids your eyes and you quickly look around too, “It’s fine.”

A silence ensues. It’s not uncomfortable, per se, but it’s a far cry from the brief pauses in conversation that usually occur between the two of you. The comfortable silences that occur naturally between friends of five years. You wonder if you should address it, address the fact that if you two were to pull this off— and pull it off well— there were going to be more moments when he was going to have to touch you like that. 

He was going to have to hold your hand and give you frequent hugs and actually act like he was in love with you. Act. 

You swallow at the prospect. Not like that would be hard for you to do, you think rather pitifully.

There are two more couples in front of you when you say, “I’d like to institute the first provision.”

Hajime quirks an eyebrow, his lips lifting upward, an obvious sign of gratefulness at being able to brush over that weird moment of physicality. He doesn’t know why it was instinctual, or why he even thought that placing his hand that low around your waist would be a good idea. But, he did it; And it’s quite the revelation when he realizes he didn’t mind it. 

At all.

“Oh yeah? And what’s that?” He glances at you to his right, the teasing smile gracing your features and the recognizable glint of mischief in your eyes. 

“You have to buy all of the food we eat together.”

He scoffs out a laugh, shaking his head, “I  _ already  _ buy all of our food.”

“I always pay you back!”

“You owe me at least three-thousand yen.”

“Okay, an addendum to provision one.”

“Shoot.”

“You buy all of our food  _ and  _ forgive my debts.”

He laughs louder tilting his head back as his teeth peek from his pink lips. It’s the bark of laughter that swells your beating heart with confidence. You may not have him romantically, but there’s no denial of the fact that he likes you in his life, especially when you can make him laugh like that, “I’m starting to think this contract is only beneficial to you.”

It’s your turn to raise an eyebrow at him, the body still tucked tightly beside his as feet shuffle forward in the line, “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m doing you a huge favor.”

“Trust me, I haven’t forgotten.” A silence befalls again, this one not as tense as before. A small smile plays on his lips and there’s a sincerity behind his gaze that reminds you of how appreciative he really is for this. Hajime isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to repay you for stepping in and helping him in the most intimate of ways that you most likely would rather  _ not _ do. There wasn’t ever an expressed interest in the dating scene from you, always denying the occasional confession that came your way and never thinking twice about the romantic holidays that come and go.

He wonders why because if you tried, you’d have every guy within a ten-foot radius begging for your attention. Surely one of them would be worthy of your love. (He doesn’t agree though. There’s no one in this world who could ever be worthy of you. Not when you smile so brightly and tease so enticingly. No one would ever deserve that part of you. No one that he would ever approve of, anyway..) He’s not dumb in realizing that your willingness to engage in a romantic relationship with him— even if it is a fake one— is a large deviation from the norm. It’s not something to be taken lightly.

So, he owes you. Big time. Whatever you want, whatever you put in this contract, he’ll do. He’ll be the best boyfriend you’ve ever had. 

(Fake boyfriend, he has to remind himself. He swallows down the disappointment.)

“Thank you.” he breaks the silence, rubbing the back of his heating neck, “Again. For doing this for me. I don’t—”

“Ah, ah!” You interrupt, holding your hand upwards and wagging a finger at him, “I haven’t done anything yet, so don’t start thanking me so soon. Who knows? I might sabotage this whole thing, be the worst girlfriend you could ever imagine.” 

The couple in front of you finishes their order, stepping to the side to allow the both of you forward. You step up, dragging him with you but you don’t miss the low throaty chuckle he emits when he says, “You like me too much to do that.”

He pats the top of your head, smoothing the fly-away hairs with a wink and a sly smile, and then, like nothing even happened, he steps up to the counter, taking the initiative and placing your usual orders. There’s both too much nuance and not enough to his statement to determine if you should be scared at his words.  _ Does he know? Did Oikawa tell him? _

You don’t even notice when he puts both food items on one bill. 

It’s then that you remember, with little humor like someone who’s forgotten a necessary step to an important project, that while you’ve done a lot of growing and building these past four years to fortify the walls of your heart, so has he. He’s stronger, more confident, more sturdy. 

Fourteen-year-old you built the walls for a fourteen-year-old Iwaizume Hajime. She didn’t even think to consider the damage eighteen-year-old Ace and Vice-Captain of the Seijoh Volleyball Team could do. Not with a spike those strong arms could make and a sea of green that you still drown in.

The first large crack in the barriers has been made. 

He turns to face you upon finishing the order, stepping to the side and bracing his body against the far wall of the restaurant to allow the next customers to the counter. That damn sly smile is still on his face, and it’s then you realize that he  _ has  _ to know. He has to know what he’s doing, or at least know that it’s doing  _ something  _ to you.

“So,” he tucks his hands into the pockets of his uniform pants, biceps bulging at the action “tell me about this contract, sweet girlfriend of mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wowowowowow its out. welcome to the end notes. this chapter is mainly meant to be a method of complete exposition so we can get to the good stuff in the next couple of chapters. i don't think the next chapters will be this long, but I will say that just writing this chapter has made me extend certain things and remove others for the sake of this story. it's constantly evolving and I don't think I have a set limit now. oops. 
> 
> talk to me on tumblr!!!: "@haztory"
> 
> and as always, thanks for reading. feedback and messages are always welcome.

**Author's Note:**

> was iwa too ooc? idk, all i know is that i have too much fun making him uncomfortable and having oikawa play master puppet. all comments and messages are welcome! if there's something that needs to be changed or anything like that let me know!
> 
> you can talk to me over on tumblr "@haztory" !!!


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